Angela Angel: Surfer Chick Extraordinaire
by Solanio
Summary: Her fellow surfers claim that Angel is so light on her board that she seems to fly over the waves. They just might be more right than they know.
1. Prelude

_The theme is angels as a variant in the World of Darkness. This and similar stories of mine present angels more as mythological beings, and their relationship to Man, God, demons, and each other in a much more dark and cynical perspective than is typical for the subject. Thus the treatment is more in keeping with modern gothic themes, and has something in common with books like Good Omens, films like the Prophecy, and games like In Nomine. Therefore it might not be suitable or enjoyable for those with strong convictions and beliefs about angels. - This story is part of an ongoing chronicle at my web site (see profile) using a shared character. If you would like to contribute to this chronicle, please stop by. Otherwise, any helpful hints and critques are most appreciated. - Cheers, Sol._

**Prelude**

Falling

Stars

Stars like twinkling diamond dust upon the blackest firmament.

I remember when I was born. I don't suppose that is the correct term for it, but there you are, or there I was. First, I was only a part of the Symphony, indistinguishable, radiant but only a part of a larger whole. Slowly, with purpose that I was unaware of, small melodies became distinct. And I do mean _small_ melodies, that could hardly be heard and yet in unison provided some of the most powerful of moments. It was as though the Symphony were breaking up into myriad harmonies of intricate complexity, and yet together, forming a sound so simple and divine that the moment I was aware, I worshiped it. I slowly became conscious of my _birth_. Others were there before me, many others. Some had grown confident in voice and they led our choirs. It was a wondrous time. Who knew then how much strife and discord could come of it all when the beginning was so beautiful.

Sometimes, I close my eyes. Yes, I know, it seems an affectation, but I am in human skin now. We model ourselves after the great apes, the plainswalkers, who walked upright, hairy, unkempt, very unglamerous. But as they evolved, so did we. Their form became our form, our lesser form, unless you were the lowest Choir of Angel, in which case this form was all. Not to decry angels or the angelic form. But sometimes, I wish was back in Heaven. There you see, we have other shapes, perhaps more fitting. Mine was sleek and powerful, more akin to the divine animals worshipped by the city dwelling apes who succeeded the plainswalkers. Still, I can get over it. I stare at these fleshy appendages, useful but so oddly incongruous to my senses. _Hands,_ they're called hands. I can do so much with them, but they more than anything remind me how cloying it feels to be in this skin.

The strangest thing is feeling, I think. I can _feel_, I can touch. Before, the Symphony was tangible in a similar way. But it was more of a thought, more pure. Physical manifestation slowly grew. My own voice had a small part in its making. It was called Creation, and all such physical forms came into being or had their roots in those first few moments. First there was the Symphony, and then were created the melodies that would form the archangels, and then the elohim. Then we added our own voices and fire and sky were born, uniting into a fiery explosion from which all things came to being. Realties formed, many of them. We were drawn to this or that one, melodies I haven't heard since then nor am likely to ever again, all travelling to be part of realities sundered from this one.

Heaven was beautiful, more beautiful than it is now. It's blasphemy to suggest such but that is how I see it. It was tangible, but not in the same way. The manifestation of creation was more fluid, more malleable. Each manifestation was at once many things and only one, just as Creation was many realities, many universes, and yet, as far as I know, but one semblance of the one Symphony. As if in other rooms, the music changes and grows in different ways, so our realities become distinct. Even Heaven is probably not the same, not perhaps to exist in those other _rooms_. It is, but more so was, such an incredible vision. It vibrated and filled our celestial essence with that of the one Voice whom we served. Our own voices stopped singing, now and then, and we became more distinct, more separate from the One. We could manifest different harmonies, not all of them in keeping with the Divine, so it seems.

But the more Time, grows, the more it cloaks and chokes the very essence of harmony out of physical form, binding it to lumpy awkward forms that seem more like prisons than vessels fit for anything of the divine. But that is what Time is I suppose. It was the strangest thing when I first encountered it. It was nothing that we need consider, much, but to feel it around, permutating everything, it was strange. I know this may sound odd to you, but before Time, music wasn't made in a linear fashion. The Symphony grew and fell into itself. I could go back to the moment of my creation and even before but Time created barriers to such comprehension. So you see, I know very well how I was created and what the moment of my creation felt like before. But in Heaven, Time's touch was so much lighter compared to weight of it upon this world. Like a choking air, it suffocates you and everywhere you go, you must move through it to get anywhere. Motion is always forward and all actions are touched by Time. But I tell you, it wasn't always this way.

Not everything of this world, this reality comes from the Divine. No, our erstwhile brothers, becoming more enamoured of their own voices than that of the One, they've added much to this fabric. Sometimes, sometimes, seeing the cruelty of the apes, men they are called now, I sometimes wonder if the voices of the Enemy were louder than ours when this world was done and set. There seems to be so much of their stench in Man and the struggles we face now seem insurmountable.

And there you are, that is how I, who now must add the cloak of a Man's name to my being here, this is how Angela came into not only this world, but into the fabric of Existence. And Time pulls all of us into a vortex that we struggle against. Like Man, we fear the oblivion, dark, devoid, meaningless and most of all, Quiet.

**story by Solanio**


	2. The Wave

Powerful, mighty, the curve of it more beautiful than his dream woman's thigh, Kevin shot forward, his arms paddling furiously. He followed his target, the sweet spot of the wave. It was his if he could catch it. Shooting forward, Kevin fell into that rhythm of victory, a practiced rhythm that lacked all but an audience. This was a wave of legend, a rogue wave. Only the best could hope to ride it. He caught the rogue and, to his surprise most of all, was riding it, staying on his feet. The height of the wave was incredible. He was in the curl, gaining on it, shooting forward. Cowell's appeared to be zooming towards him. He was king of the moment, and here was his coronation. Now at last everyone would have to recognize that he had graduated, and was one of the worthies able to surf Steamers. But a usurper appeared. Kevin's peripheral vision saw him cutting forward to his right. It was the same dick-head who had given him shit before, the same nemesis who had kept him locked in at Cowell's since he was 12. Bronz, with his unmistakable blonde dreads and shark-coloured wetsuit, cut forward. He flashed Kevin a mocking grin as Kevin pulled back and lost his footing. Kevin folded back underneath the curl as the weight of water pushed him under.

Kevin sucked in cold water and belched it out, along with half his air. He was pushed down into the dark water, way down, as if the wave, judging him unworthy for his hesitation, sought to drown him for the impudence of trying to ride it. The weight of the water pushed down on Kevin's chest and he had to cough up more air. Kevin had half a moment of panic, thinking he just might drown as the wave kept pushing him. But time in an adrenaline fed universe has a different feel. Seconds are ages and pass surreally. Kevin's intellect reminded him that he had not been under all that long, and that no matter how deep, he was going to be alright, that he was not going to drown. He would rise again, not a king, but a common little punk that had dared Steamers before his time. And his exile back to Cowell's would be even longer because of it.

The length of time that the power of the wave and its crushing weight took to let Kevin go seemed forever. The weight of water eased just as Kevin felt the press of hard sand on his foot. His arm came to rest on a sharp rock, scrapping it badly. Dancing lights that seemed to far away blurred through his salt stung vision, telling him that he was deeper than he had thought. He killed the panic, having no use for it, and with a push and a kick, started his glide back up to the surface.

His tethered foot failed to move. Rather it jerked him back, just as his lungs, promised air, had eased on him a bit. Kevin looked down. A couple of blurry dark shapes, rocks, clasped his board beneath him. He swam down without thinking, yanking on his board, trying to pull it free. But it had cracked in half, and the part of it tethered to his foot, had caught its fin solid in rocks, twisting the tether tight around his ankle. Trying to suck the last bit of oxygen from what little air he had managed to keep down, Kevin had to give it up nonetheless, as his chest heaved while he to struggled to get free. That's where the intellectual part of him failed. It calmly gave him the score, and told him he was going to die. He rejected that and fought on, even his he started to breathe in water, his lungs trying to reject it, only drawing in even more water.

"Fuck Man! That asshole is taking his time coming up." Bronz seemed more annoyed than worried.

A group of surfers had paddled over and they were the ones Bronz had been talking to. A couple of them untethered and dove down. Bronz didn't offer to join them but he watched them intently.

"I see him down there," one of the divers volunteered after coming back up. "He's too deep. Someone'd better paddle out and call Shore Rescue."

The assembled surfers looked at Bronz, but he returned a look of disgust, throwing their accusing looks back at them and paddled away to catch the next wave.

A petit young woman with long sun-bleached hair appeared out of nowhere and disappeared as fast as she'd appeared, slipping under the water even as another huge wave came tearing down on the group of assembled surfers. None of the other surfers saw her swim down, busy as they were dealing with the wave. Angela plummeted through the cold water as if it were air. The strong sunlight filtering down, cast a strange broad shadow as she neared the sandy floor. She found Kevin and untethering him from his broken board, pulled him to her. She gave the sand the barest of kicks but it was enough to rocket her to the surface.

"Angel, is he alive?"

The woman ignored the question and pressed her lips to Kevin's, which were turning blue. Kevin didn't cough up water, he didn't choke or gasp, he simply resumed breathing. Looking up at his rescuer, all he could see was her silhouette framed the sun, giving her the appearance of a halo.

Angela whispered. "Don't worry, Kevin. You're going to be alright. Just sleep. You can breathe now.", and the boy slept.

Draping him onto her board, Angela paddled parallel to the waves, making her way back to the landing at the cliffs.

Bronz, the surfer who had cut the boy off, and who had been the cause of the accident appeared off of the woman's right.

"Hey cunt! You have a bad habit of sticking your nose where it doesn't belong."

"Really? You have a bad habit of sticking your board where it doesn't belong, Bronz. I seem to remember I taught you that lesson once."

The woman gave Bronz a sharp look that made him back off. But when her back was turned, he shot forward once more and tried to cut her off.

"I was drunk. Otherwise, you'd never have gotten away with what you did. You just be glad my bros weren't around. They'd a messed you up, bitch"

"Get out of my way, Bronz. I need to take this boy in. He needs to see a doctor."

"Fuck you! Who told you to interfere? I was just teaching that punk a lesson. He knew he didn't belong at Steamers. Hell, he's so lame, I'm surprised they let him in at Cowell's. It is not my fault he got fucked up. He got what he deserved! "

Bronz thrust a finger into the woman's face. It was a bad idea. The woman gave a half-smile as she snapped Bronz's finger, breaking it cleanly. Bronz sucked in air, ready to howl, but he ended up sucking water instead as the woman shot forward, riding over Bronz and his board, pushing them both underwater. Not even glancing back as Bronz finally found the air to howl a bit through coughing jags, he paddled up to the concrete landing at West Cliff. A number of young surfers, who seemed to know the boy, met her, and helped her carry him up, though she needed no help to carry him. He was tall but skinny, as was typical of many young teenagers.

"Is he going to be OK? one of them asked "

The woman replied with assurance that calmed them all at once and removed any fear they had. The paramedics had been called, but no one could remember by whom.

When the paramedics had taken the boy away, one of the young surfers asked her, "You're Angel, aren't you?"

He squinted, trying to see her, framed as she was against the Sun. Her wet hair seemed to glisten and sparkle, and what seemed a tiny circular rainbow could be seen wavering in the hair above her head.

But she only smiled and pointed toward the ambulance. "Go be with Kevin. He should have friends with him when he wakes up."

The boy looked at the ambulance screaming off into the distance. When he looked back, the woman was gone.

**story by Solanio**


	3. The Warning

Angela stared at the newspaper.

**_Local Surfer Saves Congresswoman Elaine Elliott's Son From Drowning_**

The photo clearly showed Angela bending over a boy as paramedics were lifting him onto a stretcher. There was a caption underneath. _Local Woman's Surfing Champion, Angela "Angel" Darwin, saves the life of Kevin Elliott, only son of Congresswomen Elaine Elliott._

"I guess you didn't notice the photographer, Sarah suggested."

"I guess I didn't, Angela agreed."

Sarah pointed something out in the photo by tapping on it. Angela could see that a dim circular band seemed to ride above her head in the photo. Even more remarkable was what looked like a double exposure, where faint wings could be seen partly extended behind Angela. Angela let out a sigh. She glanced over at the crowds attending the nearby Farmers' Market, wishing she could disappear into them.

"Don't worry", Sarah told her, lighting a clove cigarette. "I got the feature killed. It took some doing. Now I owe some _monkey_, named Jane Bishop, a big favor. And I hate it when I have to owe a monkey a favor." Then she pointed her cigarette at Angela. "But you have to be more careful. I can't always go saving your butt. If Daria were to find out..."

A number of patrons at the coffee shop shot the smoker some nasty looks. Santa Cruz had a no spoking ordinance for public places.

"What are you _monkeys_ looking at?"

The people who had been glaring looked away hurriedly, perhaps not even wondering why they were suddenly afraid.

"Stupid _monkeys_", the woman muttered. "Why did they have to restrict a perfectly reasonable vice, like smoking?"

"You probably shouldn't call them _monkeys_ to their faces", Angela observed.

Angela looked around to make sure no one other than humans had heard Sarah's disparaging comments. Angela regretted Sarah's lack of subtlety. Sarah had only been earthside, "Monkeyland" as she called it, for 200 years. In that time, she had failed to even come close to appreciating the nuances of human culture.

"Oh, before I forget, a memo." Sarah reached into her purse.

"A memo?"

"Yes, I thought it might be helpful to the new recruits. You don't mind giving it a listen, do you." Sarah didn't phrase this a question.

"Sure," Angela said in a resigned voice.

She took Sarah's proffered hand. A pool of radiance slipped from one to the other. Some of the more attuned people nearby heard the transference as a clear note sounding from somewhere far off, and paused a while to reflect. Angela took a moment to listen to the silent music playing inside her.

Her answer was to cock an eyebrow in Sarah's direction.

"What?" Sarah asked.

"Well, you're hardly one to lecture on 'blending in." Angela pointed out. "I mean..." Her hand, palm up, unfolded in Sarah's direction.

Sarah, who's incarnation was a svelte manicured brunette that would have been more at home on the cover of Vogue than at a paint-peeled white cafe table at the Cafe Pergolesi, responded innocently, "What?"

Sarah raised her arms, dainty hands, wrists folded backwards, touching her own shoulders. "What, this? Oh you can't begrudge me what little beauty as monkey skin might allow. After all, what's so special about this incarnation?"

"You're wearing a Chanel suit," Angela pointed out.

"Chanel, Yves St. Laurent, Givenchy, what's the difference? They're just monkey rags after all."

"You're a high-profile prosecutor. You're mentioned in the newspapers quite a bit."

"Ah..." Sarah wagged a finger at Angela. "At least I have sense to make sure I keep my picture out of the paper, unlike some."

"The point is, you might as well just blurt out to the Enemy, 'Here I am. Come get me.'"

"We've trounced the Enemy so many times, they don't dare show their faces. It's getting to be that I rather miss a good fight. I don't think you need to worry about that. "

"Still..."

"No, what we have to watch out for dominions, like your film-obsessed friend, Marcus Crisco, drawing attention to us and creating discord. I mean, what kind of name is that?"

"But, didn't Daria say we had to start choosing more original names?"

"Original is one thing. Ridiculous though was not the intention of that directive. And whose idea was it to create an incarnation that looks like that monkey scientist? And the colour! What was he thinking?"

Angela winced. Marcus had been so enamoured of Albert Einstein since he's seen that news reel. He thought it be a break since he was almost exclusively into movie stars. "Yes," she agreed. Angela remembered that Marcus had been in such a rush to present his new vessel that he'd made it a bit too literal, being that he had copied it from a black and white source.

Sarah nodded smugly. "Well, I'll leave you to talk to him about it then. Tell him I like that he's moving away from film stars. But if he has to be so unoriginal about his monkey skins, tell him to choose someone who's been dead longer, like Pythagoras, or maybe Francis Bacon. Oh, and don't get me started on that angel, Benefice. He's another mess altogether. The two of them are a plague."

"Sarah picked up her lambskin gloves. Though it was too hot for gloves, Sarah just loved the way they looked on her hands."

"Try to stay out of the papers, won't you dear?" Sarah pretended to give Angela a peck on the cheek, and then walked down the steps, heading for her chariot, which had been made to appear like a car, in fact a brand new Jaguar, parked across the street.

Angela saw the old Lincoln as it sped down the street. Behind the wheel of the grey and rusted unpainted chassis were two long-haired thugs. Angela saw at once that they were infernals, but she didn't recognize their stench. It was too late to warn Sarah. The Lincoln plowed into her, tossing her in the air. Then, just for spite, it reversed and ran over her, back and forth, a few more times. Dozens of people sitting outside screamed as the car sped off, leaving Sarah flat on the ground, tire tracks clearly marked over her shredded Chanel. Angela ran down the steps. She saw Sarah move.

"Don't get up!" Angela hummed, hoping to reach Sarah before she moved. But it was too late.

Sarah, forgetting where she was, sat up, rubbing her head, and seemingly more concerned over the state of her torn Vuitton purse then she was over her body, which was absolutely filthy, but undamaged. Sarah's vessel was tough, but in the circumstance, this wasn't a blessing. To make matters worse, she got to her feet, in order to better examine the wreckage of her dress.

"It's a miracle!" someone shouted. This same sentiment was being echoed by a score more voices. There was no way Angela was going to be able to inflict that kind of damage control to silence every voice in the growing crowd.

"What?" Sarah started to realize what was going on. She looked around and saw numerous cameras clicking away. She angrily tossed away a hand held out to help her, as a huge throng had begun to gather around.

Before Angela could think of how it could be worse, the local KSSC news van pulled up and the crew jumped out. Led by a woman reporter, three of them pushed their way through the crowd.

"Hi, this is Alexis Vandervoort, KSSC news with a Live report. We're interrupting our coverage of the Santa Cruz Farmer's Market to report that Assistant District Attorney, Sarah Fynn, has just been savagely run over by a hit and run driver. But what is amazing, what onlookers here are calling a miracle, is that Ms. Fynn has not only survived what would have killed most, but is apparently untouched." The news reporter shoved her mike into Sarah's shocked tire-tread-marked face. "Ms. Fynn, would you care to comment on the motive for this terrible attack. And can you give us some insight into how you managed to survive?"

Angela winced again, this time from the cacophonous discord ringing in her ears, a discord emanating from Sarah. Still, seeing at the shock on Sarah's face, Angela had to hide her mouth behind her hand. She was laughing.

**story by Solanio**


End file.
